Father and Son
by TheFlyingWriter-01
Summary: Hank wasn't Connor's father, and Connor wasn't Hank's son. With one slip of the tongue, a line has been crossed, an unspoken agreement has been broken, and the two partners are at an impasse. (Rated T for language, but if you played the game, it's probably not that bad.)
1. The Word

Hank wasn't Connor's father, and Connor wasn't Hank's son.

That was just how it was, and how it would always be; it didn't matter how much they knew about each other, or how many things they did together, or how many conversations they had.

Hank already had a son, and had already been a father.

But Hank's son had been _Cole_ , not Connor. And it didn't matter how long they knew each other, or how many jokes they made, or how many fights they had.

Hank would never be Connor's father, and Connor would never be Hank's son.

Hank had put up Cole's picture after the revolution, and it stayed up ever since. Maybe it was because Hank had finally come to terms with his death, but Connor also recognized it as a reminder.

 _Don't push it._

 _You're not his son._

 _He already has one, and you can't replace him._

Cole was _always_ visible now, and Hank had begun to talk about him more (not terribly frequently, but more than before). Connor didn't _dislike_ it; Cole had seemed like a wonderful kid, and Hank lit up whenever he mentioned him.

That was good in itself – early in their partnership, Hank had only mentioned Cole briefly, and for a long time, all Connor had known about him (outside of government records and files) was his death. But it had been a few months since the revolution, and Hank was coming out of his shell.

He'd talked about how Cole enjoyed going to the park, and how he tried to make breakfast in bed for Hank on the weekends, and how he loved to swim and play in the rain. Hank talked about how Cole cried the first day of kindergarten, but since then couldn't wait to get in and get a sticker just to show his dad how smart or well-behaved he was. Cole got upset when he was too small to ride a rollercoaster, but completely forgot about it when Hank won him a stuffed toy at a rigged carnival game. Cole loved animals, and sports, and knew all the words to Hank's 'unconventional' heavy metal songs (even if he didn't understand them).

Cole was a good kid, and Connor liked hearing about him.

Still… Cole was a warning. A boundary. An unspoken agreement. Cole was _Hank's son_ , and Connor wasn't. That was just how it was, and how it would always be.

Connor wasn't related to Hank – he wasn't related to _anyone_. He had never had a childhood – _much less_ one that Hank would have been present for. He'd never been walked to school, or needed help with homework, or skinned his knee. He'd never had to learn to walk or talk, and he'd never been taught to say 'please' or 'thank you.' He'd never played with toys until they were ragged, or refused to eat his vegetables, or drawn a picture to put on the fridge.

He'd never been anyone's _son_ , and he never would be.

And sometimes Connor was jealous. (If Amanda was still lurking somewhere in his program, she was probably furious.) Why couldn't he be someone's son?

Why couldn't he be _Hank's_ son?

But that was stupid. He shouldn't have been jealous of a six-year-old boy who'd passed away before he was even in development. He shouldn't have wanted to be anyone's son – he was Hank's partner, and friend, and 'son' was only a title. He shouldn't even _think_ about things like that, because all it was going to do was make things awkward and potentially ruin his friendship with Hank.

Which he was pretty sure he just had.

They had been at a crime scene. He didn't even remember what Hank had asked him, and he didn't remember what he replied with. All he remembered was Hank turning to look at him, with an undiscernible expression, and the words "What the hell did you just say?"

Connor remembered freezing and rolling back his memory, only to hear himself call Hank _'The Word'_ in passing. He remembered his stress levels spiking to 91% and mumbling something about investigating the next room, and he remembered leaving the building altogether, ignoring Hank's voice behind him.

He remembered vaguely registering Gavin Reed trying to block the way and saying something in a challenging tone; he remembered shoving past without a word or thought, and Gavin angrily shouting something after him.

After that, he didn't remember much of anything. He must have started running at some point, because he had just slowed to a walk and then a stop in front of a large bridge – the Ambassador Bridge, his scan told him – and he must have been running for two hours at _least_ , because now it was getting dark. He didn't know where he had been or who had seen him or if anyone was looking for him, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care.

 _What an idiot._

 _Why did you say that?_

 _You've just ruined everything._

He didn't remember moving to the railing of the bridge and peering down at the water, but he must have done that too, because here he was. He was too high up and it was too dark to even dream of seeing his reflection, but he was glad because he didn't want to look at himself anyway.

This was all so… _stupid_. Why was he making such a big deal out of it? It was just a word, a title, a slip-up. It didn't _mean_ anything. But he couldn't help it – he was embarrassed, and ashamed, and anxious, because of one small word.

But it wasn't just the _word_ that turned his metaphorical stomach. It was the _assumption_.

Hank had never returned the sentiment that he considered Connor like a son, as Connor had considered Hank like a father. Hank had only talked about being a father to Cole – his _real_ son. And for Connor to impose upon that sacred relationship had been taboo.

Connor wasn't _Cole_ , and so he wasn't _Hank's son_. So why had he just assumed that he could fill that relational role, when Hank hadn't given him permission to do so? What if Hank hadn't wanted _anyone_ to ever fill that role again?

"Connor?"

The android twitched, startled, though the only outward indication would have been the flashing yellow LED on his right temple. He realized his scanners had picked up on an approaching form, but he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't let it sink in.

Hank was standing a few yards away, eerily still, yet clearly irritated.

Connor said nothing.

"Jesus, where the hell have you been?" Hank barked, eyebrows furrowed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Connor forced a reply, realizing how much darker it had gotten. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant," he said stiffly, and Hank sighed, stepping closer.

"Sumo's gonna be _pissed_ ," he muttered. "We were supposed to be home hours ago." He stood next to Connor and rested his arms on the railing, stealing a glance at the still-mostly-unresponsive android.

Connor still didn't say anything. What was he supposed to do? Act like nothing had happened?

"What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?" Hank asked.

Connor instinctively turned his head to the voice, but quickly turned away again. He hesitated, then finally managed a shrug.

Hank sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, then gazed out across the water.

They stood in silence for a while; Connor uncomfortably wrestled with what to say, while Hank seemed to grow more and more impatient.

"… _Well_ ," the man sighed finally, pulling away from the railing and stretching his arms above his head. He took a few steps before turning back to look at Connor, but the android still didn't move. "…You coming, or what?"

Connor fidgeted minutely, and saw Hank's eyes dart to his LED, which meant it must have been flashing yellow again. Why couldn't he _say anything_?

Hank waited a few more seconds, then sighed. "What, am I gonna have to _carry_ you? Because I have a feeling you pricks are a lot heavier than you look."

Connor's fingers twitched, but he still didn't react.

After a few more moments, Hank huffed in annoyance, then waved a hand dismissively. "…Alright, you know what? _Fine_. Stay out here if you want. I'm cold, I'm tired, and I'm done chasing down plastic jerks who won't even fuckin' look at me."

Connor immediately turned and looked at Hank, who rolled his eyes.

"Oh, well, _thank you_ ," he said sarcastically. "You know, I only spent… what, _eight_ _hours_ trying to find you? I called you 'bout fifty times, too. But, what, you were too busy standing on a fucking _bridge_ , so you couldn't even bother to pick up?" He threw his hands in the air, then pointed accusingly. "You know what? Fuck you. I wasted my whole _fucking_ night for this." With that, the man turned and walked away, shaking his head, muttering something about why he didn't do nice things.

Connor blinked stupidly after him, then shook himself. "…I'm sorry," he called awkwardly, but Hank just waved his hand again.

"Yeah, whatever."

"I…" Connor stepped towards the now-retreating detective, and hesitated. "I'm sorry," he mumbled again, not knowing what else to say.

Hank stopped and sighed, placing his hands on his hips and alternating between looking up at the stars and looking down at his tapping foot.

"I shouldn't have…" Connor trailed off softly. "I-I know I'm not–"

Hank raised his hand, and Connor stopped. The man turned slowly to face him, and rested his hands on his hips again. Lips pursed, he stared down at the ground, and the android felt something relative to anxiety or dread.

"You know," the man said finally, after a long pause. "I _really_ do not want to talk about this when I'm sober, alright?"

Connor said nothing.

"So let's just… get in the car and go home so that I can drink until I puke. Sound good?"

Normally, Connor would have said something about the hazards pertaining to ethyl alcohol poisoning, but now didn't seem the time, so he just nodded uncomfortably and followed Hank to the car, getting into the passenger side as the man got into the driver's. They sat there awkwardly for what seemed like forever, before Hank finally sighed again and turned the ignition.

After a few more moments, they were on the road.

Hank didn't say anything the whole ride home, and so neither did Connor. The radio was off, too, leaving the thick tension in silence. Streetlights passed over them every few seconds like small waves, and the dashboard clock read 1:49am.

…Had he really been off the grid that long?

No _wonder_ Hank was angry (original predicament aside). He'd been AWOL for the length of an entire _work shift_ without a word, and hadn't really said anything upon being found – other than a few awkward apologies and a shrug.

Connor didn't notice the car had stopped until he heard the driver side door slam shut. Hank was already opening the house door by the time the android got out of the car; Connor could hear Hank halfheartedly apologizing to Sumo for the wait, as well as the dog barking lowly in excitement.

Somehow Connor was on the step, just outside the threshold, hesitating. Just as he had made up his mind to go in, he caught sight of Cole's picture on the wall.

 _You shouldn't be here._

 _It's too late._

 _Everything is already messed up._

"Seriously, Connor, what the _hell_ are you doing?" Hank's voice broke the train of thought immediately, and Connor blinked dumbly. "Get in here so I can close the door already."

Connor still didn't move for a moment, until Hank roughly grabbed his arm and pulled him in, muttering something under his breath about androids being 'fucking ridiculous.' After that, the man wandered out of view into the kitchen – probably to get a drink, like he'd said before.

Sumo was at Connor's feet, wagging his tail happily, though he didn't jump up or howl like he usually did. Maybe he sensed something was wrong, too. Connor bent down to a crouch and petted the dog gently, scratching behind the ears in his favorite spot. Sumo panted appreciatively and leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and tapping his back leg on the floor.

Connor didn't want to get up. He didn't want to leave this tranquil moment, and he _definitely_ didn't want to talk about anything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Still, even though he hadn't had emotions for very long, he statistically knew that bottling and ignoring them was never helpful, so he stood up and moved into the kitchen, something akin to dread pooling somewhere in his chest cavity.

Hank was leaning over the sink, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him; Connor thought he felt his thirium pump malfunction momentarily when he saw the man staring at the framed picture of Cole on the counter, even though he hadn't received any error notifications.

After another few moments, Hank sighed. "…You know," he said finally, voice unusually gentle. "I haven't been called… ' _dad'_ … since…" He trailed off, but Connor didn't need him to finish to know what he was trying to say. Hank sighed again, and trailed a thumb over the face in the picture slowly.

"When you said it, I thought…" He shook his head, chuckling bitterly as his thumb stopped over the picture's cheek. "…Fuck, I don't know what I thought."

A pause.

"And then you just… _disappeared_ , and it was like…" His grip tightened on the counter's edge, and Connor saw his own LED flashing yellow in the reflection from the window. "… _Fuck_ ," the man spat through gritted teeth, entire body tensing.

"…I'm sorry," Connor said softly, for the fourth time in the last hour. "I didn't mean… I don't know why I—"

"You don't have to say anything," Hank interrupted, before taking a long swig right from the bottle. He sighed heavily after swallowing, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned to face the android, staring at him for a few moments before speaking again. "…You know, I lost him once."

Connor didn't say anything, only vaguely aware of Sumo padding into the kitchen and plopping onto the floor to rest.

"It was, uh… at the park. I looked away for a _minute_ , and he was just… gone." He ran a hand through his beard. "Just fuckin'… _poof_. And nobody had seen him, or knew where he'd gone." He made a noise like a laugh, but Connor could tell from the tears glinting in his eyes that he was stifling a sob. "God, I was so fucking _scared_."

A pause.

"He was only missing for a few minutes, but _shit_ , it felt like an hour. And… do you know what he was doing when I found him?"

Connor didn't respond.

"He was chasing some birds by the fountain. And when he saw me, he just grinned really big, like he _hadn't_ scared the shit outta me." Hank laughed again, a tear coming threateningly close to spilling over. "I was so _angry_ , and I started yelling at him. And he knew he was in trouble when we got in the car, but he didn't cry or anything. He just kept saying he was _sorry_ , over and over."

Connor felt his metaphorical stomach twist, and his LED blinked red for a moment before spinning yellow again.

" _Fuck_ ," Hank muttered again, running his shaking fingers across his face. "It's just… sometimes I forget that he's not… that _you're_ not…" He inhaled sharply through his teeth, and stayed silent for a long time.

Eventually, Connor decided he had to say _something_. He took a deep breath, then sighed, bracing himself. "I… I know I'm not your son. I just… I _wanted_ to be." His throat felt like it had tightened, but he forced himself to keep going. "…B-but I know I can't, because I'm not… I'm _not_ …"

His voice cracked – something Connor hadn't even known was possible – and then he realized his eyes were full of tears. He'd never cried before, but everything was becoming blurry, and all he could think was _stopcryingstopcryingstopcrying_ —

"I-I'm sorry," he croaked out weakly, moving to wipe his face while his yellow LED spun furiously.

Hank said nothing for a while, then finally sighed. "…Shit," he murmured. "We are _fucked up_."

Connor said nothing.

"…Honestly," the man admitted, "I have… _no idea_ … what to do now. Like, are we supposed to… _hug_ , or something?" He scratched his beard. "…I mean, I'm not the _best_ at dealing with all this… mushy shit, but…" He offered a half-hearted laugh. "…I'm sure we both knew that by now."

There was another pause, and then Hank let out a breath slowly, putting his hands on his hips. "…Alright. I guess I'll just lay it out. I know I'm not your dad, and you're not Cole."

 _You're not his son._

"You're my partner."

 _You're not his son._

"But shit, I still care about you, you idiot."

Connor met Hank's gaze again.

"So… yeah, I'm not gonna teach you to ride a bike, or read you a friggin' bedtime story. But I'm still gonna look out for you, and keep you from getting yourself killed, and hunt you down when you fuckin' _run off_ in the middle of a case. Alright?"

Connor nodded stiffly.

"Just…" Hank sighed. He looked like he didn't want to continue, but he did. "…Please… don't call me 'dad' again, okay? I can't… I can't think about being _that_ to someone again."

Connor nodded again, slower than before.

 _You're not his son._

"…I'm sorry," the android said again, absentmindedly. "…It was an accident; it won't happen again."

And it didn't.


	2. The Role Model

Hank wasn't _against_ androids having families. In fact, it was rather the opposite.

He had vastly changed his opinions about androids in the past few months, after meeting Connor and seeing the revolution led by the one called Markus. So, no, he didn't… _discourage_ androids having families. Hell, Hank had _seen_ androids with families already – like those Traci models at the Eden Club, or that housekeeper and little girl, or even the deviant leader himself. It made sense. All living things – androids included – desired companionship, didn't they?

So it probably shouldn't have surprised him that Connor would want to be part of a family too. He had gone deviant close to the end of the revolution, but they had bonded even before that, so it was obvious he had already been quite open to pleasant relationships. And while most of the time Connor was still pretty analytical, he was learning to become more open to his feelings and emotions. Hank had been helping him with that – ironically, he knew – but _now_ look what had happened.

…'Dad.'

It was such a small word, Hank thought. Why did it have so much _power_ over him? It used to make him feel so proud, and honored, and _happy_ – it _used_ to make him feel like he could do anything. Now it left a bitter taste in his mouth and made him feel slightly numb.

Hank turned over in bed and faced the clock, which now read 5:03am. Shit, was he _ever_ going to get to sleep? They'd finished talking not long after Hank's closing request, and the man had gone straight to bed. That was about an hour ago, but he hadn't been able to sleep since then (which Hank decided was _bullshit_ because he _specifically_ remembered almost falling asleep on the road when he'd been looking for Connor).

God, had that been _tonight_? It felt like forever ago.

He felt bad for the kid, of course. He didn't _blame_ him for wanting a family, like so many other androids in the city. And he didn't mind _being_ a family – the three of them (Sumo included, of course). Just… why did Connor have to bring their relationship under a magnifying glass? Why couldn't they have left titles and labels out of it? Why couldn't things have stayed unsaid?

Hank turned over in bed again, frowning at the closet door. He hadn't done anything… _wrong_ , had he? He'd been upfront with his feelings, and Connor had to respect that. He hadn't been _mean_ , either. He hadn't yelled (much), and while he felt bad about shutting Connor down, he'd _told_ him he would look out for him, and cared about him, and that they were still friends. All he did was set a boundary. Just as long as Connor respected Hank's request, everything would go back to normal. Or it was _supposed_ to, anyway.

And hell, it didn't mean Connor couldn't find _someone_ to call dad. Hank didn't care _who_ Connor was friends with, or enemies with, or whatever. The _word_ wasn't the issue, it was just when the word was applied to _him_ , right? Hank imagined Connor calling someone else 'dad,' but his stomach turned again, so maybe it _was_ just the word that he disliked.

A muted noise from the front room dismissed the thought, but Hank didn't get up. It was probably Connor, but even if it wasn't, the android wouldn't let them get far without a tussle. And Hank didn't _hear_ any tussle.

A few more minutes passed in silence, and Hank checked the clock again. 5:24am, it read, and Hank sighed. "…Connor?" he whispered wearily, then cleared his throat as he rubbed his eyes. "Connor, what the hell was that noise?"

No answer, but maybe he'd just gone into sleep mode or whatever the hell androids did.

"Connor?" Hank called a third time, but there was still nothing.

With a long sigh, Hank moved to get up, and caught sight of Sumo shoving his way through the bedroom door with his nose. The dog's tail wagged excitedly when he saw his master, and he barked once, surprisingly quietly for such a large dog.

"Hey, Sumo," Hank said softly, patting the dog on the head as he moved to the door. "What the hell is he doing out there? You're keeping the peace, right?"

Sumo barked again.

"Good dog," Hank smiled as he padded blearily into the front room, but it dropped quickly. "Connor, if we're being fuckin' robbed, I'm gonna be pissed," he muttered, but the android was nowhere to be found. "…Ah, not _again_ ," the man growled. "Sumo, where the _fuck_ did he go now?"

The dog just sat down and wagged his tail.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Hank opened the front door and peered out into the cool morning air, glancing left and right, as though the android would be _standing_ there doing _nothing_. "…Ah, I'm too tired for this shit," he groaned, shutting the door and moving to the kitchen. His hand fastened around the almost-empty whiskey bottle without a thought, but he quickly let go when he saw the small note on the counter next to it.

'I'm going to collect files from the Department to compensate for lost time. You can go back to sleep,' it read, in perfectly straight letters. It wasn't signed, but it didn't take a genius to figure out who it was from.

"…Eh, no complaints here," Hank muttered as he shrugged and headed back to his bedroom.

He appreciated the extra time to sleep (or to try to, at least), but he still felt guilty for some reason. Was Connor just trying to distance himself now? Had Hank really hurt his feelings that bad? Or maybe Connor was trying to give _Hank_ some space, after realizing the line he'd crossed?

He practically fell back into his mattress, and Sumo made a noise from the bedroom doorway. "Eh, go to sleep, Sumo," Hank heard himself say, eyes drooping shut.

But the next thing he knew, Sumo was licking his face and pawing at his arm excessively. "Stop it, you idiot," Hank grumbled, wiping the slobber off his face as he struggled to move away. The dog barked behind him, loudly, and Hank opened his eyes, glaring. "Hey, what's your problem? Don't you know I'm trying to fuckin' sleep? It's only—"

He glanced at the clock, which read 11:56am.

"…Oh," he said, bewildered. So he _had_ managed to fall asleep after all. Sumo barked again, and Hank sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I hear you." He'd survived on a lot _less_ sleep before in his life, so he tossed the sheets out of his way and moved to sit up.

"Connor?" he called without thinking, but he didn't get an answer. Was he still not back yet?

He got dressed and went into the kitchen, but the note was still where he'd left it, and Connor was still nowhere to be seen. Sumo was sitting patiently in front of his empty food dish. "Ah, so that's why you're all worked up," Hank muttered, filling the bowl with odd-smelling dog food. "There ya go, boy. Eat up."

While the dog went to town on the meal, Hank grabbed a banana (that he only had _some_ intention of eating) and trudged to the door. "See you later, Sumo," he said, but the dog didn't even look up.

Hank got in the car and sighed at the long silence. It was… _weird_ … not having anyone next to him, reminding him to put on his seatbelt, or giving him the day's work itinerary, or summarizing the ending to the movie from last night that Hank had fallen asleep during. It was weird having things be so _quiet_.

Hank felt nauseous. The last time he'd thought that had been right after…

 _Damn it_! He couldn't think about this shit now. Or later. Or _ever_. He had _things_ to do, and he didn't have time to keep thinking about things that he couldn't change.

He listened to the radio the whole way to the station in an effort to distract himself, taking care to listen to songs he specifically didn't know. After an uneventful drive, he pulled into the DPD parking lot and waited a few moments before getting out. He suddenly realized he'd have to see Connor today, and _work_ with him. How the hell was _that_ supposed to go down? Hank didn't know how he was going to look the kid in the _eye_ , let alone _talk_ to him.

And would Connor even _want_ to talk to him? The look on his face before Hank went to bed was still burned into his mind – sure, the android had put on a polite tone and smile in the end, but not before Hank saw the expression of pure loss and distress flash across his features, accompanied quite fittingly with a yellow LED blink. Was Connor going to be _upset_ with him?

Well, there was only one way to find out. And anyway – Hank insisted to himself as he walked through the DPD doors – he hadn't _really_ done anything _wrong_ … had he?

Chris Miller spotted him as soon as he got inside, and met him at his desk, looking harried. "Hank, where have you been? Fowler's been trying to get a hold of you all morning. He's pretty upset."

Hank frowned; he hadn't even _looked_ at his phone yet, but now he had a feeling it was riddled with a bunch of unread texts and missed calls. "Yeah, I'm not surprised. Tell him I'll work overtime to catch up," he muttered, starting to sit down.

Miller made a move to stop him. "It's not about that," he said, looking nervous. "It's about Connor."

Hank stopped and slowly looked at the younger man. "…What about him? He's here, isn't he?"

The android wasn't at his desk, but Miller nodded slowly; Hank looked at him expectantly.

"… _And_?"

"…He's been suspended, Hank. For negligence and assault of another officer."

A pause.

"…What the _fuck_?" Hank said, a little too loud than was probably polite. "…We _are_ talking about the same Connor, right? Weird voice, flippy hair, puts gross shit in his mouth – that Connor?"

Miller nodded slowly again.

"Who the hell did he assault?"

Before the younger officer could answer, Gavin Reed came from nowhere, a pack of ice on his nose, a smear of dried blood across his top lip, and a huge devilish grin on his face.

"Take a guess," Miller said softly, but he was drowned out as the injured detective practically bounced over to them.

"Oh, _hey_ , Anderson," he grinned, and Miller walked away, shaking his head and saying something about sympathies that Hank didn't catch. "So, you decided to show up to the party after all. Thought you were too busy getting hammered to come in. Here to watch your plastic pet get deactivated?"

"What the hell'd you do this time, Reed?" Hank glared, but Gavin feigned innocence.

"Hey, I didn't do anything. It was that jackass that punched me in the face. _Unprovoked_ , by the way."

"Yeah, I'm sure you had _nothing_ to do with it. After all, you're always so _pleasant_ ," Hank said sarcastically, but Gavin was undeterred.

"Keep laughing, old man. A broken nose is old news to me, but you're gonna be down a partner. _Permanently_." He grinned and moved slightly closer, emphasizing every word. "And believe me, I am gonna be the first person in line to wish that plastic asshole goodbye."

Before Hank could say anything, Captain Fowler's voice rang out. "Hank, get your ass in my office, _now_. Reed – get back to work."

Gavin shrugged, throwing his hands in the air innocently before slinking off to his desk like the _smug fuckin' weasel_ he was, while Hank sighed irritably and trudged up the steps to the glass-walled office.

He had barely shut the door before the captain started shouting. "Are you even slightly aware of the time and effort this is going to cost me? What it's going to cost the _department_?"

Hank didn't bother sitting down. "Look, Jeffrey, I know I'm late, but I already told Miller I'd catch u—"

"No, Hank. This isn't about being behind on your work; this is about _handling_ your damn partner. He's been suspended for—"

"Hey, Connor doesn't need _handling_ ; he's not a fuckin' _dog_."

"Well, _clearly_ he needs some _supervision_ , because he assaulted another officer in the middle of my goddamn _police station_!"

"Oh, come _on_ , it was _Reed_. Everybody wants to deck him anyway, and you know Connor wasn't fuckin' _unprovoked_." Hank took a step closer. "You _know_ he wouldn't do this kind of shit unless Reed pushed him, Jeffrey; give the kid a break."

Fowler locked eyes with Hank. "…I _know_ you and Connor are close. And damn it, Hank, we're friends. But I can't just excuse _assault_ under my _authority_!"

"Jesus, are you fucking _serious_?"

"Yes, Hank, I _am_ serious. Which is why he's only suspended for a _few days_." Fowler paused, but Hank was quiet, so he went on, voice unusually calm and quiet. "Look. I like you, Hank. And I like the kid. But it's _interpersonal misconduct_. I'm telling you, I can't just let it slide."

"…But you _know_ Reed was talking shit to him, Jeffrey. That's what Reed _does_."

"Even if Reed _did_ verbally provoke him, there's no rule against that." Fowler shook his head. "Connor threw the first punch, Hank. Any retaliation from Reed after that could be claimed as self-defense."

Hank threw up his hands. "So… what, Connor gets pulled from duty and Reed gets off scot-free?"

"Detective Reed is on thin ice, but according to the code of conduct, he's done nothing wrong."

"Oh, this is such bullshit," Hank spat, beginning to walk to the door.

"Hey, this isn't a pretty situation for me either, Hank! You and Connor are some of my best detectives, so believe me, I am the _last_ person to want to suspend him."

"Then _don't_ , Jeffrey," Hank said, turning around and moving back to the desk. "Punching Reed isn't worth a _few days_ suspension."

"It _is_ when coupled with negligence on duty," Fowler sighed. "You know he ran out of a crime scene without leave."

"Well, so did I, Jeffrey; you gonna suspend me, too?"

" _You_ had the excuse of tracking him down. Plus, you actually reassigned the evidence and case off to another officer." He shrugged, sighing. "…Is it unprofessional? _Yes_. But it's only worthy of a few write-ups." He looked the lieutenant in the eye, lowering his voice. "…I'm being nice, Hank. If Connor had a track record like yours, this might have been the one to kick him off the force. Hell, it might have qualified him for deactivation. But he doesn't. This is a first-time offense on both accounts, so I'm letting him off easy."

"Yeah, ' _easy_ '…" Hank repeated bitterly. "Hey, why are you telling _me_ all of this, anyway? Shouldn't you be talking to Connor?"

"I already did. I'm telling _you_ because you're his _partner_."

Hank raised an eyebrow in a look of expectancy.

Fowler sighed. "Hank, he might be a bunch of wires and plastic, but he seems to really look up to you. And I don't want to have another encyclopedia-sized disciplinary folder in my files, alright?"

Hank paused, frowning. "…What are you saying? You think Connor punched Reed because _I'm_ an asshole?"

"That's _not_ what I'm saying, Hank. I just think you should… _talk_ to him, or whatever the hell you have to do. You know, be a good role model and all that, because I don't have the time or resources to deal with this crap; I'd rather not have to do it again."

"He's not a little kid, Jeffrey. He doesn't need a fuckin' _role model_."

Fowler sighed again. "Look, I don't have time to argue anymore. I'm up to my ass in paperwork, and I _don't_ need another write-up today, so just get back to work – and don't do anything stupid."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he said, waving a hand dismissively. He was already out of the room and down the steps before Fowler could tell him to shut the door, and he beelined to Miller's desk.

"Where is he?" Hank asked bluntly, voice a little more bark-like than he'd intended.

"Last I heard, he was in the break room," Miller replied politely. "Hope everything's alright."

"Thanks, Miller," Hank said genuinely, and the young man nodded appreciatively as Hank moved towards the back of the building, ignoring whatever Reed called out about getting decommissioned.

What the hell was _going on_ lately? Hank knew Connor had experienced some difficulties in the past regarding dealing with his newfound emotions, especially right after the revolution, but he'd never done _anything_ like he had in the past twenty-four hours. He'd gone AWOL during a case, been almost entirely unresponsive for a good hour, and now he'd actually _punched_ someone (admittedly, Hank wasn't entirely _upset_ about that one, but it was still rather uncharacteristic of him).

And what did Fowler think he was talking about? Connor may have seen Hank as a parental figure (hell, he'd _literally admitted_ it yesterday), but that didn't mean he was trying to _be like_ him, did it? Connor wasn't a baby, and he could make his own judgements (or statistics or whatever the hell androids had). It wasn't _Hank's_ fault if Connor started acting differently.

…Right?

Connor wasn't looking at Hank as he approached; he was facing the wall, and it looked like he was gently running his fingers over his knuckles. Even from this distance, Hank could see the red-brown stains on the white, skinless hands, and something in his stomach rolled. It was weird suddenly thinking how easily Connor could _kill_ someone, but Hank pushed the thought from his mind and cleared his throat.

"Been wanting to punch Reed for years," he heard himself say, sounding a lot more nonchalant than he really was. "How'd it feel?"

Connor spun around so fast Hank thought he was going to fall over. His face was eerily blank, like a deer in the headlights, and it took a split second before he seemed to register who it was in front of him. "Oh," he said softly, and Hank watched the synthetic skin glide back across his fingers. "…It was an accident."

"Hey, you don't have to apologize or anything; we all know the prick deserved it." Hank shrugged and moved to the table. "So, what'd he do this time?"

"Nothing," Connor said quickly, then hesitated, eyes following Hank the whole time. "…I-it was my fault."

Hank gave him an unimpressed look. "You don't have to play the saint, Connor. Everyone in the office knows you wouldn't take a shot at the guy unless he did something appropriately shitty." He paused. "So… what happened?"

Connor blinked. "…I already told you, it was nothing." A pause. "…Just an accident."

Hank raised an eyebrow. "…You know you're getting _suspended_ for this, right?"

Connor nodded immediately, but said nothing.

"…That doesn't _bother_ you?"

Connor's eyes flicked downwards, and it looked like he was searching for the proper words. "My suspension is… _inconvenient_ , but not unexpected. And it's only for a few days." He offered a polite smile, blue LED spinning lazily. "…You'll barely notice I'm gone."

Hank said nothing, staring at the android skeptically.

After a moment, Connor spoke again. "Before my suspension, I managed to upload some files from yesterday that I completed into your computer, so you won't be behind on today's work. I also figured you'd be coming in late today, so I started on some of your assignments in order to compensate for lost time." A pause. "I… hope that's alright."

Hank nodded slowly, keeping his narrowed eyes fixed on the android. He remembered Connor's note from this morning saying something about that. "…Thanks," he said flatly, and Connor nodded.

"I'm going to go now," he said robotically (the irony not lost on the lieutenant). "Have a nice day, Hank."

"…Yeah," Hank nodded again, altogether suspicious. But he said nothing further as Connor turned and headed for the DPD doors, unreactive towards the celebratory tune Reed was rather pointedly humming.

…What the hell was that about? Hank hadn't seen Connor act so… _formal_ … since their first days being together. Maybe it was some sort of coping mechanism after the awkward conversation last night (or this morning, he supposed wearily)? Did androids even _have_ coping mechanisms?

…And he had been so… _nonchalant_ … about his suspension, too. Hank didn't know _what_ he'd expected Connor to say, but it hadn't been _that_. He'd just… _shrugged it off_ like it was an everyday thing, and then left without ever even telling him what the scuffle with Reed was about.

Shit, what the hell could Reed have _done_ to really make Connor go off the handle at him? The android had endured his fair share of insults and passive-aggressive bullshit before; Reed must have _really_ gone above and beyond this time. And then Connor had acted like it was nothing, which was… off-putting, for some reason.

Hank moved to his desk and sat down, glancing at the one across from him out of habit and frowning at the vacant chair. Connor's desk was still practically as empty as it had been the day the android had taken it; the only thing distinguishing it as being used was the Detroit Gears hat that Hank had offered him not too long ago.

"…C'mon, you need _something_ ," Hank had said, holding it out, and Connor had taken it slowly.

"This… really isn't necessary," the android had replied, tenderly running his fingers across the hat's seams.

"Eh, just take it. I got enough shit on my desk anyway. Plus, it'll remind me to take you to a game one of these days." Hank remembered the little smile flash across Connor's face.

"…Thank you," he'd said softly, and Hank had told him not to mention it.

Now, Hank frowned at the hat. He should've seen this shit _sooner_. Connor was generally reserved, and a damn good liar when he needed to be, but he was also pretty open if you knew what to look for. In fact, he'd become _easier_ to read after becoming deviant and having less of a hold on his emotions.

So why hadn't Hank noticed? Why hadn't he caught anything? Why hadn't he _seen the signs_ that Connor wanted a dad, and stopped the whole thing before it got out of hand?

…Alright, maybe he _had_ noticed. And maybe he hadn't wanted to admit it, because maybe he _liked_ having Connor look up to him, and he hadn't wanted to think about it. Maybe he had been hoping Connor would just… never say anything, so he wouldn't have to take responsibility.

Shit, did that make him a bad person?

…Probably.

But it was too late to whine about it now. And maybe it was for the _best_ that Hank had told him off in the end; Connor deserved a better dad than him, anyway.

Connor needed someone actually _worthy_ of being looked up to; if they'd met when Hank was in his prime, it might have been a different story. But now he wasn't worth much of anything. He was the prime example of what _not_ to do – he'd had the world in his hand, and then flushed it all down with a bottle of whiskey. And Connor didn't deserve that as a role model – as a _dad_.

Connor deserved someone who actually had their life together – someone who slept normal hours, and got to work on time, and ate something _other_ than take-out on a regular basis. He didn't deserve a recovering alcoholic with emotional baggage and a history of violence.

…Connor must have had some low standards.

Hank sighed as he logged into his computer, trying to ignore the thoughts in his head. (Especially the one reminding him that… they'd never gone to that game he'd promised, had they?)


	3. The Message

Connor wasn't stupid.

He'd been manufactured at a Cyberlife warehouse, so – via protocol – he'd been granted the basic functions of any android, which meant he could analyze situations, predict statistically likely outcomes, and then react accordingly. Even further, he was one of the _newest_ models of his time – a state-of-the-art prototype – so he was granted quicker analysis times, more accurate readings, and more fluid reactions. There was _rarely_ a moment when he didn't have a plan.

Therefore, admittedly, he hadn't been _entirely_ uninvolved in the matter of his suspension.

Gavin Reed had just been a means to an end – an easy out and the opportunity he needed, in the form of a likely statistic that he would get temporarily suspended from the DPD. And, as usual, Connor's statistics came through for him – with one solid breach of protocol, he was suspended.

He'd anticipated punishment for his stunt yesterday, of course, but there was no guarantee it would have granted a suspension. And even if Fowler _would have_ suspended him for it, it likely wouldn't have been enough time (a day, if that). So Connor had calculated, weighed his options, and reacted accordingly.

A _few_ days away from Hank would be enough, he supposed; it was going to _have_ to be. If he'd done anything _worse_ than break Gavin Reed's nose – which he had made sure not to actually do, keeping the trajectory and force exponentially precise so as not to do any _real_ harm – it could have been detrimental to his status in the long run. This was going to be on file, sure, but they were only first offenses. And Connor didn't plan on reenacting this sort of thing anytime soon, so he figured the sacrifice of a perfect record was worth it.

He ran his fingers across his knuckles absentmindedly as he walked down the street. It was almost… _therapeutic_ … to hit things, he had realized. By no means did he plan on making it a habit, but… it _was_ an interesting outlet. According to his database, humans also commonly released anger by way of physical violence. Connor paused. He wasn't… _angry_ , was he? He'd been hurt, sure, but… he wasn't _angry_ at Hank. He _couldn't_ be.

After all, Connor didn't have a _right_ to be angry. _He_ had been the one to overstep, and _he_ had been the one to impose into Hank's life. _He_ had understood what the title of 'dad' meant to the man _long_ before saying it, but he had said it anyway.

If _anyone_ had a right to be angry, it was Hank.

Connor suddenly felt numb.

… _Was_ Hank angry?

The man had _seemed_ pretty upset last night, but by the end of the conversation, he'd definitely calmed down. He hadn't acted particularly angry today, either… sure, his heart rate _had_ been marginally accelerated, but his body temperature and perspiration levels had been normal, and his voice had been at a regular decibel and frequency. If Hank _was_ angry, he could hide it _extremely_ well, which worried him.

Connor ran a thumb across his knuckles again. They weren't damaged in the slightest – according to several system reviews, anyway – but they wouldn't stop… _tingling_ , like a sort of adrenaline that he knew for a _fact_ he didn't have.

Admittedly, he didn't remember actually _throwing_ the punch – then again, he didn't _need_ to when he could just roll back his memory – but he _did_ remember the conversation leading up to it, as well as his system's suggestion to _do_ it.

76% chance of suspension, his interface had read.

While the world stood in limbo, he had cross-referenced the numbers coinciding with his abandonment of a crime scene, which led to a raise of 98% chance of suspension.

After that, there hadn't been a second thought. It _didn't matter_ what Gavin had said or done, because it hadn't been about _that_ … right? It was just about the _numbers_. Connor hadn't reacted out of emotional reasons – out of _anger_ , had he? He hadn't done it without a strategy; he definitely hadn't just _made a decision_ and then later realized it _conveniently overlapped_ with his plan, _right_? And he certainly didn't have to _rationalize_ his rash decision… because it _hadn't_ been rash, had it? He couldn't have been—

Someone shoved the android's left shoulder as they walked by, and Connor realized he'd stopped walking.

He was in a sort of plaza with a fountain, across the street from a green-laden area his scanners told him was Henry Ford Commemorative Park. Someone else bumped into him, shouting something about being defective, and Connor awkwardly realized he was standing directly in front of a store entrance.

He quickly moved away as a middle-aged human woman and prepubescent pigtailed girl were coming out, hand-in-hand. The girl waved at him, smiling; Connor hesitated – the last few times he'd seen a girl of a similar age, they'd either been dangling off the side of a building or fleeing from him across a busy highway – but he managed to offer a smile and wave back. The girl just grinned, and then vanished into the sea of people moving back and forth across the sidewalk.

Connor watched the crowd for a few moments, then turned and moved closer to the fountain, trying to follow them with his gaze, but he'd already lost them. Rather dejectedly, he peered into the water, tracing his thumb across his knuckles again and making sure to stay away from the flow of foot traffic this time.

Where was he going? What was he _doing_?

…What was he _supposed_ to do?

He couldn't _run_ from this, because he'd already _tried_ that; all it had given him was a riled-up Hank and an awkward car ride at two in the morning. He couldn't _ignore_ it either, because he'd tried _that_ , too; forcing yourself to stop experiencing an emotion was a lot more difficult than it sounded, he'd discovered. And he couldn't _address_ it either, because Hank had made it pretty clear that he was done with the whole thing. He didn't seem to want to talk about it anymore, which the android understood.

So who was Connor supposed to go to?

He didn't know any humans other than the ones from the DPD, but even then, he had a feeling that very few of them were going to be _terribly_ enthusiastic about helping him. And even if he _was_ able to find someone else pleasant enough towards him to actually _talk_ to him about this kind of thing, they knew Hank, so they would undeniably talk to _him_ (maybe not directly about it, but it could come up… humans had a higher likelihood of letting a secret slip than androids did, after all), which would only drive a _bigger_ wedge between them. Besides, would Connor even _want_ to talk about it to anyone else? It was sort of… _embarrassing_ , and personal, and sometimes humans had a hard time understanding androids (deviants in particular). Hank was a mild exception to this, but even _he_ couldn't understand _everything_ – he wasn't an _android_. Which he supposed is why they were in this mess to begin with.

Connor needed someone who would understand his deviant-related issues and had little to no relationship with Hank, which – in short – meant almost any android he could find. The problem was, Connor didn't know many androids either, meaning he was still stuck at square one with _no idea_ where to go from there.

"Connor?" asked a voice from behind him.

The detective android just stared at the fountain water dumbly, watching his reflection's yellow LED slowly spin back to blue. He'd thought about taking it out before; now he wondered why he hadn't yet, like so many other androids.

"I didn't expect to see you here," the voice continued.

Connor blinked once before realizing he was being spoken to, and turned to see what appeared to be a rather nicely dressed man with two different-colored eyes looking down at him.

"…Markus?" Connor heard himself say softly, a bit surprised.

"I'm sorry if I surprised you," the deviant leader smiled. "You seemed pretty lost in thought; is everything alright?"

Connor straightened quickly, shaking his head. "Y-yes, I'm fine; it was nothing," he said, suddenly very self-conscious. "…What are you doing here?"

Markus tapped a finger to his temple. "Processing legal documents and agreements, mostly. But I like a change of scenery every now and again." He paused, gazing around at the bustling plaza. "…I used to come here pretty often. Sometimes it's nice remembering how _simple_ things used to be, you know?"

Connor nodded stiffly, feeling a little numb, but he said nothing.

Markus turned his head away from one of the stores and locked eyes with Connor again, smiling warmly. "Have you been here before?" he asked, and Connor shook his head. "The park is beautiful in the spring; if you aren't busy, you should come visit in May, when the snow starts to melt." He paused for a few moments, observing the android beside him. He then furrowed his brow and softly placed a hand on Connor's shoulder. "…Are you _sure_ everything's alright, Connor?" he asked again. "You know, if you need somewhere to stay, Jericho is _always_ open to you."

Connor looked up. "I… didn't know you'd found a new place," he said, a small twinge of guilt evident in his voice.

Markus shrugged. "We haven't yet – well, not officially, anyway. There are _some_ areas around the city devoted to android rehabilitation, but we're still trying to collect enough funding for our own building." He paused, smiling. "But you know, Jericho isn't just a _place_ , Connor; it's a _people_." He held out his hand, disengaging its artificial skin to reveal the stark white plastic beneath. "And you're _one of us_. If you ever need anything, we'll be here for you."

Connor hesitated, but took the hint. He grabbed hold of Markus' forearm just as Markus took hold of his, and in a flash of consciousness, they were connected.

 ** _Sunshine through curtains. Dried paint on the floor. 8941 Lafayette Avenue. Welcome home, Markus._**

And just like that, the connection was over. It hadn't lasted long at all, but it hadn't _needed_ to, because androids processed quickly.

Markus lowered his arm, eyebrows furrowed even deeper, while Connor blinked in confusion. "…You're in… a _lot_ of pain," the RK200 said softly, concern evident in his voice.

Connor's eyes widened in a look of panic, LED suddenly flashing yellow, but Markus continued quickly before he could speak.

"I didn't see anything, I promise. I only felt it," he said.

Connor's gaze fell to the ground. "It's… it's nothing," he said again, yellow LED spinning slowly as he forced his body to relax. Markus didn't seem to believe him, which wasn't surprising. Did _Connor_ even believe himself?

"…You don't have to… _repress_ your emotions, Connor," Markus said, voice gentle. "You're not a machine anymore; nothing _bad_ is going to happen to you." He paused. "…I don't know _what's_ making you feel this way, and I understand if you don't want to tell me. I just want to let you know that we're _here_ for you, and whatever you're feeling _isn't_ wrong."

Connor hesitated. "…Thank you," he said finally.

Markus nodded in acknowledgment, looking conflicted. "…I won't push you. If you need me, you know where to find me." Another pause, longer than before. "…It was good to see you, Connor," the other android said, and then he, too, vanished into the crowd.

Connor stared blankly at the swarm of people for a few moments, feeling oddly sick, then moved to sit on the edge of the fountain. He ran the address he'd been given through his database, and pictures of a rather large house appeared in his vision, registered under the name Carl Manfred.

Connor automatically ran a search for Carl Manfred, and got a picture of a white-haired man in a wheelchair.

 **Born:** 07/13/1963. **Lives:** 8941 Lafayette Avenue, Detroit, Michigan, USA. **Height:** 5'5". **Weight:** 136 lbs.

Connor had never really researched the elderly painter before (why _would_ he have – any criminal record the man retained only consisted of a few cases of drug abuse, but that was from years ago); now he realized he had seen his paintings (or replications of them) around the city. One he even recognized from Elijah Kamski's house. He read that Carl Manfred had been in an accident that now left him a paraplegic, had fathered a son named Leo, and had a high probability of heart failure.

Connor didn't know when he'd stood up, or that he had crossed the street, but now he was in Henry Ford Commemorative Park with a small disc of cold metal in his palm. Markus was right – it _was_ pretty here. Connor absentmindedly pulled up some pictures of the park in spring, and decided he would come back in May, too.

Connor retrieved the address again from his search history. He didn't know why he'd been given it, but he was still appreciative. He also didn't know if he was going to accept Markus' offer to _stay_ there, but he supposed if he had time, he might visit. After all, Markus seemed to be his _number one_ option of person to talk to about this whole thing – even if he'd chickened out this time… but he'd been _confronted_ about it, to be fair – and Connor would need _something_ to do with all of his newfound free time.

"Wow! Can you teach _me_ to do that?" asked a small voice, and Connor looked up to see the little girl from before, her eyes wide. Her dark hair was still in pigtails, but they'd come loose, so some of her tight curls hung in her brown eyes.

He blinked at her once before realizing he'd been calibrating, the familiar twenty-five cent coin maneuvering between his fingers without thought. Before he could answer, the girl was pulling him to a nearby bench.

"My name's Grace," she said, clambering up onto it as he slowly sat down. "I saw you earlier by the stores. Do you remember me? I was with my mom; she's over there." The girl pointed across the park to the woman from before, who seemed engaged in conversation with some other similarly-aged ladies.

When Connor looked back, the girl – Grace – was staring at his LED. "…You're an android, right?" she asked. "Mom says androids are really expensive, and really smart. Are you smart? What's your name?"

"…My name is Connor," he managed to answer, and Grace grinned.

"How did you do all that stuff?" she asked, reaching for his coin. "It looks really hard."

Connor watched the girl as she turned the currency over and over in her small dark hands. "…I was programmed to calibrate my reactions by performing dexterity exercises." He paused, shaking his head slightly. "It doesn't take much of my concentration."

Grace tried to toss the quarter a few times, but to no avail. "Ugh, it _is_ hard," she pouted and handed it back, looking up at him as he took it. "You must practice _a lot_ to be so good, huh?"

Connor realized the girl either hadn't been listening or didn't understand, so he just decided to indulge her. "…Yeah, I guess I do," he nodded awkwardly.

Grace looked around. "How come you're all alone? Don't you have a family?"

Connor's fingers tightened slightly around the coin. "I… don't know," he admitted softly, and the girl seemed to observe him.

"…Do you want to play with me?" she asked finally.

He blinked at her, then nodded slowly. "…Alright," he agreed, and stood as Grace took his hand and slid from the bench.

"Okay, let's go swing on the swings," she suggested, and Connor nodded, following the girl across the park. "Can you push me?"

"Sure," he heard himself say, ignoring the _ping_ in his temple informing him of a text message.

"Tommy from school says that humans come from hospitals, but androids come from factories. Is that true? Did you get made in a factory?" Grace asked as she sat on one of the seats, and Connor nodded as he pushed her. "That's really cool. Does that mean you have lots of brothers and sisters?"

"I… suppose so."

"I don't have _any_. Mom says that means I'm an only child." She paused. "Hey, Tommy also said androids have blue stuff inside them that makes them turn on and everything. Is _that_ true?"

She twisted in her seat to look at him as she swung by, and he nodded. "It's a genetically synthesized fluid called Thirium 310, but most people just call it blue blood. It circulates energy and electrical information throughout an android's body and biocomponents, and can be used to forensically identify them."

Grace scrunched up her nose, and Connor realized the definition may have gone over her head. Nevertheless, she continued on, seemingly undeterred. "Okay, Tommy _also_ said androids have a _secret_ face under their _real_ one, but they hide it because it's _scary_. Is _that_ true, too?"

"Androids have artificial skin and hair made out of synthetic fluid. It _can_ be deactivated, but I don't know if it's _scary_." He held out his hand to her as she swung by, and as the skin slid away to reveal white plastic, her eyes went wide.

" _Wow_! You can do that all over?"

Connor nodded.

"That's so cool!" Before Connor could reply, the girl continued. "Can all androids do that? Even the animal ones?"

"All Cyberlife androids have the same general functions. So… I don't see why not."

"…Hey, have you ever seen the one that looks like a lion? When we went to the zoo, Mom said it was just like the real thing!" She kicked her legs. "Have you been to the zoo before?"

"No, I haven't." He paused. "…How was it?"

"It's really fun, if you like animals. _Do_ you like animals?"

The android hummed affirmatively.

"What's your favorite? Mine's dogs."

"I like dogs, too."

"I wish we could get one, but we can't because we live in an apartment. Do you have a dog?"

"Yeah," Connor nodded immediately, pushing the swing.

"Is it a boy or a girl? If _I_ had a dog, I'd want a girl."

"A boy. His name is Sumo."

"Is he big?"

Connor pushed the swing. "Yeah, he is."

"My friend Sara has a big dog, too. But Sara says her dog thinks she's little, so she tries to sit on people's laps. When I went to her house, she almost squished me! Does your dog do that?"

"All the time," Connor said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "…I don't mind so much, but Hank always yells at him."

"Who's Hank?"

Connor paused, expression dropping immediately. He hadn't meant to bring the man up – he'd all but _forgotten_ about him for the last hour or so, to be honest – but now he instantly regretted it. He took a step back from the swing.

"Connor?" Grace asked, leaning back to see him. "…Are you okay?"

"…I don't… I don't know," he said absentmindedly, barely noticing the swing slowing to a stop.

"What's wrong?" The girl shifted in her seat. "Is he hurt?"

"I don't know," Connor admitted. "…I don't think so."

The girl gestured for Connor to sit in the swing beside her, and he did so, albeit awkwardly. "Is Hank your friend? Is he nice? Did you get in a fight?"

"…Kind of," Connor answered, though he wasn't sure which question he was answering.

"Did you say sorry?"

"Six times," Connor nodded.

"Is he angry?"

"I don't know. He doesn't seem to want to talk about it, so I don't know if I should ask."

Grace sighed. "That sounds like my dad. When I first met him, he was kinda scary because he didn't like to play with me or talk about my school."

Connor looked at her. "…What did you do?"

"My mom said I should talk to him, so I did. And he said he was just nervous because he'd never been a dad before, so he didn't know how to talk to me." Grace paused. "He said he didn't want to mess up or something, but I just told him it was okay."

"...Did it work?"

Grace seemed to ponder the question, then nodded. "Yeah, I guess so. He's still kinda funny sometimes, but… he's better. He's usually the one who takes me to the park instead of my mom, but he's in California right now for work." She paused. "…I miss him."

Connor watched the girl pump her legs. "I hope you can see him soon," he said quietly.

"Me too," she shrugged, then looked at him. "…You should talk to your friend. I bet he's just like my dad, so everything will get all better."

Connor stared at the ground. "…But what if it doesn't?" he heard himself ask.

"You won't know unless you ask," Grace said, pumping her legs harder. "And if you stop being friends, you can always hang out with me; _I'll_ be your friend."

Connor felt himself fully smile, and he suddenly realized he hadn't _done that_ in a while. "…Thank you," he said genuinely, but the girl was nonchalant.

"You're welcome," she said simply, still trying to swing.

Just then, the woman Grace had originally been with approached them, carrying a small pink backpack. "Hey, Gracie, you ready to go?"

"I'm coming," the girl said, waving to the android beside her as she slipped off of the seat. "Thanks for playing with me, Connor!"

Connor stood as well, and nodded in acknowledgement to her, then to the woman. Grace's mother nodded back with a smile, and then the two humans moved to exit the park, hand-in-hand.

Connor watched them go, and then he was alone again. Without a conversation to divert his attention, he was suddenly aware of the text messages in his head.

 ** _*shit u were busy this morning_**

 ** _*i dont think ive ever had so little work to do wtf_**

 ** _*youve been holding out, why dont you do this shit more often_**

 ** _*then I could actually fucking sleep more than 8 hrs_**

Connor started walking down the street again, destination aimless. The texts had been from Hank, obviously, but they'd only been sent about thirty minutes ago. He debated responding, but before he could make up his mind, another text arrived.

 ** _*connor im about to lose my shit_**

An image followed almost immediately, and Connor realized it was a screenshot from the station security cameras (how Hank had gotten the footage was beyond him). He grimaced when he realized it was a still frame of himself mid-punch, with Gavin Reed in the process of sprawling to the floor. More texts followed in quick succession.

 ** _*you actually fucking decked him_**

 ** _*jesus christ_**

 ** _*i cant believe this_**

 ** _*im about to frame this shit on my wall_**

 ** _*holy fuck_**

Connor didn't know how to respond, so after staring at the messages for a few moments, he ultimately decided to say nothing.

The android simply walked on, unsure of where exactly he was going. He considered going to check on Sumo, but then he'd have to go _inside_ , and see the pictures on the wall that he'd come to _dread_ , so he decided against it, and ended up just walking wherever his body led him.

That was the downside to being suspended, which Connor realized. He'd done it to distance himself from Hank – and let the man have some space – but now he didn't have a job to do, or a place to go, or anyone to talk to; now he had too much time to _think_.

He passed by a few Cyberlife stores, but they were all closed. They weren't _derelict_ , by any means, but they definitely weren't opening any time soon. From the giant glass walls that made up the place, he could see inside and found that everything was still pristine (if anything, it was merely marred by a thin layer of dust). Even the price signs were still up; the only things missing were the products. Connor wondered where they were now.

Come to think, where were _any_ of the androids he'd met in the past six months? Did they have homes? Did they have families? Or were they having as much problems as he was?

Connor felt something _ping_ in his temple.

 ** _*where are you_**

 ** _*you better not be on a fucking bridge_**

 ** _*i stg im too tired for this shit_**

Connor checked the time, and frowned when he realized it was almost 6:15pm. His model may have been designed to be more perceptive than any other android model on the market, but he seemed to be cultivating a massively bad habit of losing track of time or his surroundings. He moved away from the Cyberlife store and turned into a residential track, wondering if his altered perception was a result of deviancy, or if it was because he hadn't been calibrating as regularly as he used to. Or maybe it was both; maybe being deviant had made him less aware of his calibration.

 ** _*please tell me youre not fucking lost_**

 ** _*because i am not in the mood to go driving around til 2am again_**

Connor looked up and examined his surroundings. He was in a long street of houses that he didn't recognize, but his GPS system was still online, so technically he couldn't be _lost_ even if he wanted to be. He sent a reply without thinking.

 **I'm not lost.**

A response came quickly.

 ** _*oh thank god_**

 ** _*you actually fucking responded this time_**

 ** _*where tf are you_**

Connor looked around again.

 **I don't know.**

A pause.

 ** _*figures_**

 ** _*ok well do you need me to come get you_**

 ** _*or what_**

Connor didn't… _need_ Hank to come get him; he'd walked all the way here, and he could find his way back just as easily. He would also probably be able to get home _faster_ than Hank could drive back-and-forth, and anyway, he was _not_ looking forward to another awkward car ride.

 **No, I'm not lost. I know my way back to the house.**

Still, though… he _did_ want to get over the whole thing. So maybe he should take Grace's advice – maybe he _should_ go home and talk to Hank.

 **I wanted to talk to you.**

Connor took a deep breath (that he didn't actually need) and insisted on telling himself that everything was going to be _fine_. He would just talk about his feelings, and Hank would listen, and hopefully no one would get upset. And maybe they would actually be able to move past this. Maybe Connor would stop feeling so tense all the time, and Hank would let his walls down again, and a picture of Cole would be a pleasant memory rather than a numb reminder.

After all, Connor shouldn't have had to hide his feelings, or act like something he wasn't, or tiptoe through conversations just to maintain a relationship. He shouldn't have to be _afraid_ of the person he trusted the most.

 _I may have to replace you, Connor._

A voice he knew all too well rang in his ears, and a sudden chill came over him, even though he _knew_ androids couldn't feel cold.

 _Don't have any regrets. You did what you were designed to do._

Connor's stress levels rose to 62% despite himself. He knew Amanda was gone. She _had_ to be – he'd hit the program's emergency exit, and in the months following the night of the revolution's final statement, he'd never returned to the Zen Garden. She _had_ to be gone.

And anyway, Connor knew _Hank_ wasn't Amanda. He knew Hank couldn't take control of him, or deactivate him, or trap him inside of his own mind. He knew Hank wouldn't do that even if he could. Still, though… he found himself suddenly _very_ on-edge; the reply notification actually startled him.

 ** _*shit, it better not be important_**

 ** _*because i haven't had a drink yet_**

Connor hesitated to answer. Maybe he _didn't_ want to do this; he didn't want to ruin things anymore than he already had, and potentially repeat the experience of losing the only person he had ever trusted (or who had ever trusted him).

Sure, he hadn't been particularly _close_ to Amanda (like he was to Hank), but for the approximate two months of his existence before meeting the man, she had been _all he had_. And to be fair, she had been decently _pleasant_ to him in that time, especially when he did as he was told and successfully completed his mission. He hadn't wanted to do anything else _but_ please her… until he began to work with Hank.

It wasn't _him_ that she disliked – true, she hadn't necessarily _approved_ of the lieutenant, but she'd tolerated their partnership – rather, it was his _influence_. It wasn't until Connor stepped out of line that his affiliation with her began to deteriorate.

He'd sacrificed the mission to save Hank, and she'd been irritated.

 _That deviant seemed to be an intriguing case. Pity you didn't manage to capture it._

He'd let those Traci models go, even when he had them in his sights, and she'd been distrustful.

 _You had your guns trained on those deviants at the Eden Club. Why didn't you shoot?_

He'd refused to pull the trigger on that girl in Kamski's house, and told her the man had no information. She'd been downright _angry_.

 _Maybe he did, but you chose not to ask._

And then the next time they met, he was lost in a snowstorm, desperate and weak and _terrified_ he was never going to see the only other person he cared about ever again. All because he'd done something he shouldn't have. No, some _things_ he shouldn't have.

He didn't necessarily _regret_ breaking off his connection to Amanda, but he _did_ wish there was something he could have done differently – something he could have done _better_. If he'd only messed up with her once, she might have forgiven him. But he kept pushing the boundary, and then he was abandoned – cut off, left to panic and fend for himself. It _had_ worked out in the end, but still…

If he hadn't had Hank, Connor didn't know _what_ he would have done.

Now he didn't have anyone to fall back on. If he pushed too far with Hank, he could potentially lose him too, and then he would have _no one_. It would be just like the snowstorm all over again.

Even scarier was the thought that it would be _worse_ this time, wouldn't it? Losing the only stable figure in his life had been quite an emotional ordeal for Connor the _first_ time; he didn't know if he wanted to risk it happening again. His chest cavity suddenly felt very tight, but he didn't need to run a system malfunction check to know why.

Hank meant _so much more_ to Connor than Amanda _ever_ had. If losing _her_ was that terrifying, losing _him_ would be like throwing Connor back into the snowstorm all over again… only this time, there would be no exit.

And that _scared_ him.

So he chickened out.

 **I think it would be best if we spent the next few days apart, in order to encourage emotional optimization. I apologize if it seems abrupt.**

The android shivered on the sidewalk as a brisk winter wind flew by, even though he kept telling himself that he couldn't _feel_ the cold. There was a long pause before the next reply.

 ** _*uh okay_**

 ** _*if thats what you want then sure i guess_**

 ** _*sounds good to me_**

Connor suddenly felt very heavy, but he didn't know why. He _had_ been honest (he didn't know if he could _see_ Hank now after everything he'd thought about, so a time apart wasn't _unwelcome_ ), but still… a part of him wished Hank would have told him to come home anyway – that they could figure things out together, and that he didn't hold the whole thing against him.

He wished Hank would have told him that he still _wanted him around_.

But he hadn't, and Connor decided he could take a hint.

He should have felt… _relieved_ that this had worked out – Hank would be able to have the alone time that he clearly wanted, no one was crying or yelling, and he hadn't had a traumatic relational repeat of last November – but instead he just felt _empty_. He didn't respond to Hank's text, and decided to ignore the alerts informing him of his artificial tear ducts coming online. Everything was going to be _fine_ – he shouldn't be getting worked up for all of _this_.

If Hank could try to forget it happened, Connor could try, too.

He pulled up the address Markus had given him earlier, stared at it for a few seconds, and then entered it into his GPS as his intended destination. He turned off his text message notifications as he started down the street again, scrubbing a hand across his face as an afterthought.

[...]

 **Hi, this is the writer speaking! ;P I know I don't usually do author notes here, but... I want to thank you reviewers! All of your support has really motivated me to keep writing this, and I can't express how many times I've read (and re-read) all of your lovely comments! :)**


	4. The Silence

Cole had just turned six at the time of the accident.

That meant that Hank knew how to change diapers, feed through a bottle, and rock a baby to sleep. He knew how to potty-train, land an imaginary airplane safely in the mouth, and keep the bathtub bubble-to-water ratio exact. He knew how to do voices during a bedtime story, help spell a name for the first time, and lose a contest on purpose (but make it look unintentional).

He knew how to be a parent, sure, but only to a _little kid_.

That meant that Hank _didn't_ know how to coach a little league game, or pack for summer camp, or help with chemistry homework. He didn't know how to give advice on talking to girls, teach someone how to drive, or tie a tie for a school dance. He didn't know how to give _the talk_ , or ground someone for staying out past their curfew, or encourage said someone to graduate.

Hank _didn't_ know how to parent someone who wasn't a _little kid_.

…But that said, Hank _knew_ he could have figured those things out, just like he'd figured out how to do all the _little kid_ things he'd learned while raising Cole. Who was there to say he couldn't pull through on raw intuition (and luck) again?

The _problem_ was, Hank didn't _need_ to know how to care for an infant, or a child, or a teenager. What he _needed to know_ was how to care for an emotionally confused adult-model android… and he didn't expect to find _that_ in some overpriced handbook any time soon.

He didn't know how to rewire circuits, or break through firewalls, or reprogram software errors. He didn't know how to describe emotions, or show someone how to have fun, or find the meaning of being alive. He didn't know how to teach someone who was smarter than him, or train someone who was faster or stronger than him, or explain humanity to someone who wasn't _actually_ human.

Most prominently, he didn't know what to say _now_ , in response to Connor's text from a few minutes ago.

 ** _*I think it would be best if we spent the next few days apart, in order to encourage emotional optimization. I apologize if it seems abrupt._**

Hank blinked at his phone screen and debated a response.

Connor had never really seen the need for chat-speak, so his proper spelling and grammar wasn't surprising – all of his texts sounded pretty formal. But regardless, Hank _knew_ something was up.

Now, he knew the android wasn't _lying_ , because Connor didn't lie to Hank.

Connor _could_ lie, of course; in fact, he lied a _lot_ easier than most people, so making up some bullshit excuse about visiting some friends from Jericho wouldn't have been hard. But Connor wouldn't have done that, because Connor didn't lie to Hank. Instead, whenever Hank pressured the android to answer something he didn't want to, he'd go out of his way to answer in such a _bullshit science-y way_ that it flew over the man's head – such as claiming he had 'abnormally positive consternation levels,' instead of just admitting he was feeling uneasy.

Usually, Hank got pissed when Connor did that kind of thing – the little shit _knew_ he had a hard time looking words up on his phone these days, and damn exploited it – but right now it seemed… a little _too easy_ , which was concerning.

It didn't take a genius (or a search engine) to figure out what 'emotional optimization' meant, which led Hank to believe one of two things – either Connor _wanted_ Hank to know he was still upset, or he was just too upset to find more technical words to bullshit his way through an excuse. Either way, it was obvious Connor was still taking the 'dad' situation hard.

Hank debated calling him and telling him to get his ass home – like _hell_ he was just going to let Connor wander the streets all night, when he had a perfectly good family waiting for him here. If Hank had things the way _he_ wanted, he'd have the android either beside him or at home at all times, to make sure he wasn't doing some dumb shit or getting himself hurt (or both). If Hank had _his_ way, he'd let Connor do or watch or say whatever he wanted during his suspension, even if it was expensive, or weird, or whatever. Hell, Hank would even _talk_ about the whole thing (again), if that's what Connor wanted, because honestly… he owed him that much.

Not _only_ had Connor stepped in and given Hank the equivalent of a foothold in the ever-declining slope that was his mental health, he'd _literally_ saved his life _multiple times_ – and that was only during the _first week_ they'd met. Even now, there was _rarely_ a moment when Connor did things in his own interest – a remnant of his pre-deviant days, when his opinions (or hell, his _survival_ ) didn't matter in the grand scheme of things – and he was _constantly_ going out of his way to express _his_ admiration for _Hank_ (as if the man had actually done something worthwhile).

…Come to think of it, what _had_ Hank done for Connor? Taken him to a few places around the city, punched that asshole Perkins that one time, and held up the mission more times than he could count – because Connor usually had to come and save _him_ , at the expense of the case. Hank didn't deserve any admiration; he _knew_ he was a pretty crappy role model, but he'd wanted to be better. He'd wanted to return the favor to Connor, and do something just as meaningful for him as Connor had done for him.

In other words, Hank owed Connor his _life_ , and Connor _didn't_ owe Hank _shit_.

But, as usual, Hank had screwed it up. When all Connor had done was express fondness for him, he'd gone and basically told the android to… _screw off_. (Okay, maybe he hadn't said it _that_ way – hell, he had been _nice_ about it, hadn't he? – but that didn't mean he still didn't feel like _shit_ about it.)

Hank moved to the couch, barely registering the bottle in his hand until he was seated. He clicked the television on, but didn't really pay attention to whatever the reporters were discussing.

Did Hank want Connor to come home? Naturally. Did he want Connor to stop moping around in the fucking slums all night? Of _course_. Did he want things to go back to the way they were? _Obviously_.

But Connor _didn't_ owe Hank _shit_.

That meant Hank didn't always _get_ what _he_ wanted. Hell, he didn't _deserve_ what he wanted, anyway. _He'd_ been the one to fuck everything up, and now he had to pay the price for it. That meant that even if _he_ didn't _like_ it, or _want_ it, or think it would do any _good_ , he _had_ to do it, because that was what _Connor_ wanted. And God knows Connor deserved _something_ , after all the shit he'd been through.

So – albeit reluctantly – the man indulged him.

 **uh okay**

 **if thats what you want then sure i guess**

 **sounds good to me**

Hank stared at his reply for about a minute after sending it. He had tried to sound nonchalant about it – what was he _saying_ , why _wouldn't_ he be nonchalant? After all, it wasn't a _big deal_. It was just like the first time Cole had spent the night at his friend's house – yeah, it had been a little off-putting, but it had also been completely normal and nothing to worry about. Hank remembered how quiet the house had been, and staying up almost the entire night wondering how the kid was doing. The entire scenario was similar, yet… it was _different_. Probably because he and Cole had never been separated while at odds before.

At least when he and Cole had disagreed (which, to be fair, hadn't been often), they'd been _obligated_ to make up, because they were legally, genetically, and emotionally bound to one another. (Plus, Cole couldn't have gone anywhere, even if he'd wanted to. He'd only been a kid.) They couldn't just cut the other person out of their life, because they were _family_.

But Connor wasn't a six-year-old human boy with a penchant for getting into trouble (that couldn't even cross the street by himself) – he was an _adult-model android_ with a penchant for getting into trouble (that could go anywhere he wanted). And Hank didn't know how to deal with him, because he only knew how to take care of a _little kid_.

The man imagined what he would have done if _Cole_ was the one trying to pull this shit. After a moment of contemplation, he finally decided he would have called him, told him to come straight fucking home, and then gone out to find him again, like another damn search-and-rescue; that was the only option that _made sense_.

But that wouldn't work _now_.

Hank couldn't just _tell_ Connor to come home, because Hank didn't have that authority. The man wasn't Connor's _boss_ , and he'd made it _pretty clear_ he wasn't his dad, so even if he _did_ tell Connor to get his ass back to the house, Connor technically had _no reason_ to listen to him – _especially_ after making him feel like shit. (For the record, Hank didn't blame him.)

And hell – assuming that didn't work – Hank _could_ go out, look for him, and drag him home himself (like he'd done the other night), but… Connor _clearly_ wanted to be alone, and Hank had already told himself he could afford the android that much.

So what was he supposed to _do_?

Sumo padded into the room and wagged his tail, but when Hank said nothing, the dog jumped onto the couch beside him and tried to lay across his lap.

"Sumo, _no_ ," Hank grumbled, but only halfheartedly tried to push the dog off. "How many times have I told you? You're too fucking heavy for this anymore."

After getting little more than a grunt in response, Hank gave up and checked his phone for a response. When there wasn't one, he took a swig of whiskey, sighing after he swallowed. "…I'm not a bad person, am I?" he asked aloud, wiping his mouth.

Sumo blinked and made a low noise somewhere between a growl and a bark; Hank glared down at him.

"…Yeah, well, what do _you_ know?"

The dog wagged his tail slowly, and they sat quietly for a few minutes.

"…Y'know, it'll be just like old times, Sumo," he said finally. "You and me. Remember that?"

The dog plopped his head down onto his front paws with a deep sigh.

"Yeah, yeah, I know; I'm not thrilled about it either," Hank shrugged. "But hey, it wasn't _my_ idea. If you have complaints, you gotta wait a few days to take it up with Cole."

Hank suddenly realized what he'd said, then froze. He felt his throat tighten, and tried to clear it, but only ended up coughing. "…C-Connor," he corrected himself once he found his voice, but Sumo didn't seem to notice.

…What the hell was _that_? He'd _never_ mixed up their names before, and he couldn't _imagine_ what he would have done if Connor had been around when he'd done it. (It would have been completely awkward in _general_ , of course, but considering how big of an ass Hank had been about Connor's recent conversational slip, it would have been entirely hypocritical as well.)

Sure, he'd been honest when he'd said that the other night – that sometimes he forgot Connor wasn't Cole – but he'd never _acted_ upon it. He certainly never _said_ anything about it, either, because he knew the whole thing was pretty screwy. But in his defense, they were similar in a _surprising_ number of ways, _especially_ considering how different they _ought_ to have been.

They were both naturally polite, they enjoyed going to the park, and they both did that little closed-lip smirk that pulled at the side of their mouth (instead of fully smiling) in pictures. They both put weird shit in their mouths (Cole had grown out of that, but Hank feared Connor never would), and they never seemed to mind being caught in the rain without an umbrella, and they could both be determined as all hell once they set their mind on something. They were both independent, but at the same time they both liked to follow him around, and – most prominently – they both liked to _take care of him_ (even though _Hank_ was supposed to be the parent, thank you very much).

"Hey, if I gotta eat vegetables, you do, too!"

"I took the liberty of preparing a list of alternative meals for you that include lower cholesterol levels and higher instances of fiber and vitamin A."

"Look! I picked out all your clothes for tomorrow, so _you_ don't have to worry about it!"

"I noticed you hadn't done the laundry in a while, so I thought I would take care of it for you."

"It wasn't your fault, Lieutenant."

"Don't cry, Dad."

Hank shook his head in an attempt to chase the thought from his mind. He didn't want to think about _this_ , and especially not _now_. This was simple facts. Connor wasn't Cole – he _knew_ that… right?

The man felt his stomach turn.

…He hadn't been… _projecting_ , had he? (Was that an actual thing people did?) Had he been treating Connor as though he were a grown _Cole_? Had he been forcing the android to vicariously live the life that his six-year-old son had never gotten the chance to have? Had he been _manipulating_ Connor's emotions just to make _himself_ feel better?

… _Shit_.

He _was_ a bad person, wasn't he?

Hank ran a hand through his beard, only vaguely aware of Sumo sighing heavily beneath him. God, now it made sense why he'd turned a blind eye to all of the signs in the past few months; he'd _missed_ being a dad, and subconsciously taken the opportunity of Connor as a second chance. But when Connor had actually acknowledged the situation for what it _was_ , Hank had panicked and pushed the kid away, in the guise of protecting them both.

The _truth_ was, Hank was a coward.

Sure, when everything was alright, the man had relished in the idea of being a role model – a _dad_ – to someone. But when things went wrong, he'd spiraled… and wasn't that the damn story of his life? At least when he'd done it before, there'd been no one to suffer for it but himself. _Now_ he was throwing all of his emotional baggage onto Connor, who didn't need or deserve it ( _especially_ when Hank knew he was _just_ getting the hang of emotions in the _first place_ ).

And Connor had _trusted_ him, which was the worst of it. Hank had thrown Connor's emotions under the bus in order to relieve his own, and the android had just… _bought_ it. He'd acted the part, but then Hank had rejected him, so it was no wonder he'd be confused and need some time to himself to sort everything out.

…Hell, had Connor even _wanted_ to be Hank's son? Maybe he'd only said what he'd said to appeal to the grieving man, or earn his trust. Maybe he didn't actually believe that shit he'd said the other night, and he was just saying it because he thought it was what Hank wanted to hear. Maybe it was just Connor looking to please others rather than himself, and this had been the way to do it.

…As selfish as it was, Hank hoped that wasn't the case.

He had to apologize, of course; it _had_ only been a day, so maybe they could still fix this. The truth was, Hank _did_ like being a father figure… even if he was still a screw-up in a lot of places. But he knew he could get better. Hell, he _had_ gotten better, considering how far-gone he'd been only a few months ago. He might not ever get to be the great dad that Connor deserved, but he could _try_ … that is, if Connor still wanted him to (or had _ever_ wanted him to).

Hank checked his phone, and frowned when he still saw no reply. It was odd of the android to be so unresponsive, but hey, he'd been doing a lot of odd things lately, so maybe the man shouldn't have been so surprised.

He took another swig from the bottle of amber liquid beside him and absentmindedly ran a hand across Sumo's back – which the dog appreciated, if the slow wagging of his tail was any indication. The fingers of his other hand moved to hover over the phone keyboard, and finally he typed a message.

 **you know**

 **if this is about last night, you dont have to feel weird about it**

 **it was my bad**

Oh, what the hell – 'my bad' was the best he could do? Hank sighed, wishing he could retype it. Unfortunately, he'd already sent it, and _God knows_ he couldn't unsend a fucking text on this thing to save his life, no matter how hard or long he tried. So he went on.

 **i wanna make it up to you**

 **if you arent like busy or anything**

 **just let me know when youll be back**

A low grumbling sigh from beneath him prompted another message.

 **because sumo misses you**

He paused, then added another.

 **we both do**

Hank's finger hovered over the send button, but he found himself suddenly conflicted to send it. Was he being presumptuous? Maybe Connor was already past this, or maybe it hadn't ever really mattered to him. Maybe it was too-little-too-late. Maybe none of this could be fixed.

…But he'd lived too much of his life on 'maybe's and 'what if's and general negativity; he'd been wrong before – his opinion on androids had proven that much. Plus, if he was going to fuck everything up, he might as well _try_ to fix it.

So he punched the send key, and then checked the time – a little after 8pm. Androids didn't sleep, did they? Well, even if they did, it was early enough that he didn't expect Connor to go into stasis or whatever any time soon. And while the android's responses had been pretty sparse and far-between lately, he'd get to it eventually, right?

Hank clicked the channel away from the news – and whatever they were spouting about proposed android rehabilitation centers – to something else, hoping to distract him from the growing pit in his stomach. The first thing it landed on was a basketball game, but Hank was _not_ in the mood, so he changed it to some documentary on how clothing hangers were made. He checked his phone at every commercial break – sometimes more often – but went to bed early with no response.

Maybe Connor just didn't want to talk. That was okay; Hank understood that. He had been (hell, he _was_ ) the same way about certain things.

As he climbed into bed, he tried to ignore how _vacant_ the house felt; save for the low whining and soft padded footsteps indicating pacing near the front door, it was practically silent. Connor was, by no means, loud or horribly intrusive, yet just the lack of his presence made everything feel… _empty_. Which was sickeningly familiar.

When Sumo eventually gave up waiting for Connor to come back, he snuck into Hank's room, and for the first time in three years, the man let him sleep in the bed.


	5. The Feeling

Connor remembered showing up at the address, and he remembered standing outside on the sidewalk for a good four minutes, after noting the alarm on the premises. He remembered debating whether or not he should leave, and he remembered an AP700 opening the door and welcoming him inside.

He _didn't_ remember walking through the foyer into what looked like a lounge, but he must have done that, because here he was, sitting on a couch in the midst of a well-furnished room… with what looked like a giraffe in the corner and dinosaur bones hanging from the ceiling (Connor supposed they may have been real, but he was too mentally preoccupied to bother scanning them). He didn't remember when he'd been left alone, either, but he didn't want to wander the place searching for the AP700 again, so he just waited.

He wasn't tracking the time, but he estimated he'd been sitting there for at _least_ a few hours… not that it mattered, because it wasn't like he was going to get bored of it. Even with emotions, androids didn't really _get_ bored, because there was _always_ some sort of file to sort, or data to process, or test to run inside of their heads. Speaking of which, Connor had uploaded some DPD records into his head before getting suspended, but right now he really didn't feel like organizing them. In fact, he was feeling like something he didn't quite know the name of – but he knew it wasn't boredom. It had been there for some time, but he'd been ignoring it; it felt like a deep weight resting and bubbling somewhere in the pit of his figurative stomach, but he didn't know _what_ feeling it was supposed to be.

That, in itself, was one of the hardest things about being deviant – not just _experiencing_ an emotion for the first time, but actually trying to _understand_ it. Most of the time, it wasn't so bad, because a lot of his emotions had been pleasant; they just… happened, but Connor _let_ them happen because they were good to feel – like when he'd laughed for the first time.

Conversely, unpleasant emotions were typically few and far between, but they were always so jarring when they happened – mainly because he wanted them to stop _so badly_ , but he never knew how. At least before, he'd had someone to help him through it… now the weight remained, because he was alone.

 ** _Alone_**. Adjective. **Definition:** Having no one else present; having no help or participation from others; isolated and lonely.

Connor shivered, though he didn't know why.

He'd never had to worry about being _alone_ before, because he'd never been anything _but_ alone. Before becoming deviant, he'd never had friends – or even enemies. People had been either relevant to the mission or not; and if they were, they were either beneficial accessories or rebellious obstructionists. Once his mission was completed, it didn't matter if he ever saw them again, because he had no reason to want to. He could have been alone forever, and it wouldn't have mattered, because he'd never known anything _but_ being alone.

(…Well, he'd had Amanda, to be fair, but he'd never been able to go to her for support. _She_ always called _him_ , so even if he had felt alone, she hadn't been someone he could have found solace in, because their visits had always been on _her_ terms. And to be honest, she probably wouldn't have approved of his sentiments anyway.)

Either way, he was alone _now_ – like he'd been before – but this time it was different, because now he knew what it was like to _not_ be alone; he had been _happy_ for the second half of his life. So going back to the isolated life he'd once been so accustomed to… well, it felt like a massively depressing reversal.

 ** _Lonely_**. Adjective. **Definition:** Sad because one has no friends or company; without companions; solitary.

Connor stared at the suggested word, conflicted. Was _that_ what he was feeling – _lonely_? That must have been it. And even if it wasn't, there was nothing to tell him otherwise.

Something like a _clink_ registered in Connor's auditory processors; without thinking, he was on his feet and turned towards the sound. The AP700 from last night had returned, but he didn't seem terribly concerned with the detective android. Rather, he seemed to be gathering up a tray of what looked like breakfast food.

…Breakfast? Connor's eyes flicked to the curtained windows, and his internal clock informed him that it was now a little past 10am. (At this point, he supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised that he'd lost track of the time again.) The AP700 suddenly met Connor's gaze and smiled politely.

"Good morning," the caretaker said. "You've been invited upstairs for breakfast."

"…What?" Connor asked, voice a little more snappish than he'd intended. Luckily, the other android didn't seem to mind.

"Carl wants to meet you. He isn't in an ideal state to come down, but he _is_ well enough to speak with you. He's invited you for breakfast," he said matter-of-factly, before beginning to move through the doors back into the foyer, and then up the stairs. "If you'll follow me, his room is right this way."

Connor suddenly felt very self-conscious, but he obliged the AP700 nervously. What else could he do? To turn down the offer would just be impolite, _especially_ considering he'd rather oddly spent the night here. The _least_ he could do was meet his host.

"You must be Connor. Markus said you might be coming over."

Connor didn't remember walking up the stairs or through the bedroom doorway, but he must have done that, because here he was, eyes immediately settling on the source of this new voice – a human man with white hair and tattooed arms, sitting in a bed not unlike the ones issued to hospitals. He scanned him out of habit.

 ** _Manfred, Carl_. Born:** 07/13/1963. **Lives:** 8941 Lafayette Avenue, Detroit, Michigan, USA. **Height:** 5'5". **Weight:** 136 lbs.

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Manfred," Connor heard himself say as the AP700 moved to set down the breakfast platter. "I didn't mean to intrude. I can leave if you—"

Carl waved his hand dismissively. "Eh, you don't need to be so formal. You're my guest. And if you don't have any plans, I'd like you to join us for breakfast." After a moment where Connor didn't move, the AP700 moved to help Carl sit up. "Thank you, David," the man said quietly, and the caretaker welcomed him, before saying something about confirming a doctor appointment and leaving the room.

"…You can sit down, if you'd like," Carl said after a long awkward silence, slowly gesturing to a seat beside the bed (away from the monitors displaying the man's vitals and such). "…I never get to use these chairs, so _someone_ might as well." He paused. "…They're expensive for some reason, too, so you don't have to worry about it being uncomfortable."

Connor awkwardly obliged, and sat in the chair (albeit stiffly). "…Your house is… very nice," he managed, though he chastised himself for sounding so customarily – and rather unconvincingly – vague.

Fortunately, Carl humored him. "Eh, that's all money gets you in the long run," he said. "…A big house and a bunch of unwanted attention." He paused, then looked back at Connor. "…I'm glad you decided to stay the night; Markus doesn't invite many of his friends over, so it's always a pleasure to have someone visit."

Connor couldn't find more to offer than a polite smile and nod.

Carl watched him for a moment, then spoke again. "…Do you have a place to stay?" he asked. "You can stay here if you like; David and I wouldn't mind the company."

Connor blinked, then felt his lips twitch upwards. "…Thank you," he said genuinely. "I… I have a home, but… I appreciate your offer."

The man nodded in acknowledgement. "You have a family, then?"

Connor hesitated, admittedly a little tense. "…Yes, I… I think so."

"Well, you should bring them along next time," Carl said, shifting in the bed. "Like I said, I don't get many visitors. They worry I'll _explode_ if I talk too much." He shook his head wearily.

Connor had absolutely _no_ intention of ever bringing Hank here, or even telling him he'd been here – if he could help it – but he couldn't _say_ that. So he said nothing, nodding politely.

"But that's what families do, isn't it?" Carl went on, the question more of a statement. "…Worry." He looked at Connor again. "…You know, you came here rather late last night. I'm sure _your_ family is worried about you."

Connor straightened in his seat. "No," he said quickly, and perhaps a little too forcefully. "…I-I mean, I don't think so." Hank hadn't sounded _horribly_ worried last night – in fact, he'd seemed rather apathetic about the whole thing.

"Do they know you're here?"

"Well, no, but… it's not…" Connor trailed off, unsure how to proceed.

Carl waited a few moments, but then eventually spoke again. "…I don't want to make any _assumptions_ ," he said, then paused. "…But I _would_ like to be honest. Is that alright?"

Connor hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"I've met a lot of people in my time. And too many of them have worn the same face you're wearing right now." The old man was quiet for a bit longer before continuing. "…Troubled. A little lost." Another pause. "…Like you're missing something."

Connor shivered, avoiding the man's gaze, but otherwise didn't respond.

Carl watched him for a few more moments, then sighed. "Now, I'm no therapist. I'm just an old man stuck in a hospital bed. So correct me if I'm wrong." Another pause. "…But you come across as someone who thinks they've lost something very special. And they don't know if they'll ever get it back." He stopped again, as though he was waiting for affirmation.

But Connor was still quiet.

Carl waited a few more moments, then spoke again, voice even more gentle than before. "…You know, I've worn that face, too." He shrugged. "…Most people do, at some point or another." He paused again. "…I wore it for years, after my accident. Because I lost _two_ things that day." Another pause. "…One was the use of my legs, and the other was my will to paint." He shifted in the bed. "…Now, _one_ of those things came back. Do you know why?"

Connor looked up and hesitated, then awkwardly shook his head.

Carl shrugged. "…To be honest, I don't know. I don't have all the answers to life." He stopped for a moment, and looked as though he was contemplating. "…But I'd like to think it's because it was the thing that inspired me – the thing that made me feel _alive_."

Connor looked away again, LED blinking yellow for a fraction of a second.

"…Things like that – things that are _meaningful_ to you – never really go away." Carl shifted in the bed. "But… they _can_ be harder to deal with when you're alone."

 ** _Alone_**. Adjective. **Definition:** Having no one else present; having no help or participation from others; isolated and lonely.

Connor wrung his hands absentmindedly, the heavy feeling in his chest making a reappearance. He was still silent.

"…When I first met Markus," Carl frowned softly. "I thought he was just a senseless machine, there to remind me of how _broken_ I was."

Connor looked up again.

"But… over time, I realized that he was there to help me pick up the pieces. And he became more than my property… my caretaker… my friend." The old man paused, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he gazed distantly across the room. "…He's my _family_ – my _son_."

 ** _Son_**. Noun. **Definition:** A boy or man in relation to either or both of his parents; a male descendant.

Connor stiffened. "…But… you're not…" he interrupted without thinking, his LED spinning yellow. "…Y-you can't be…" He trailed off, suddenly realizing he'd spoken aloud, and awkwardly looked away from Carl's curious gaze.

"Can't be what?" the man asked.

Connor hesitated to answer. "…It's just… h-he can't be your _son_. You can't be his…" He stopped, unable to say the word.

"…Is it because we're a different species?" Carl asked, sporting an expression that Connor might have been able to recognize if he wasn't so flustered.

"N-no," the android said quickly, LED flickering. "That's not… I mean… I-I don't know." He paused, eyes darting around as though he was searching for the right words somewhere on the floor; unfortunately, all he managed to come up with was another shaky "…I don't know."

"…Markus and I may not be _biologically_ related," Carl said after a few more seconds of silence. "But that doesn't mean he's not my son."

Connor made a noise somewhere between confusion and frustration, mouth opening and closing a few times. "…But you can't… you're not… th-that's just how it _is_." He ran a hand through his synthetic hair, frowning and furrowing his eyebrows as his yellow LED spun and blinked furiously. "The definition… i-it doesn't…" A pause. "…You can't _do_ that."

"…Why not?" Carl asked simply, and Connor blinked.

"…Because…" he trailed dumbly, "…b-because…" He shook his head again, feeling suddenly very helpless. "…You just _can't_."

Carl _couldn't_ have been Markus' father, and Markus _couldn't_ have been Carl's son.

It shouldn't have mattered how much they knew about each other, or how many things they did together, or how many conversations they had. It shouldn't have mattered how long they knew each other, or how many jokes they made, or how many fights they had.

They _couldn't_ be father and son, because that's just how it was, and how it would always be.

A father was someone who donated his genes, and a son was someone who inherited them. A father was someone who raised a child from birth to death, and a son was someone who'd been taught how to survive in the world. A father was someone who had legal guardianship over their child, and a son was someone who resented that fact in his teenage years.

Father and son were legally, genetically, and emotionally bound to one another. And if anything, Markus (or Connor) were only one of those things.

There was no way for an android to be genetically related to a human, which was obvious. And adoption might have been a solution, but androids still hadn't been granted a citizenship law (Jericho was working on it, but laws were slow), so until then, they were still just property. (At least Markus was registered under Carl's name; as far as the records were concerned, Connor still belonged to Cyberlife, and the government. Hank didn't _own_ him, he just… let him stay with him.)

And maybe they were emotionally close. But that didn't make them father and son. They were just… co-workers, partners, _friends_. They couldn't really be _family_.

Connor willed himself to say his thoughts aloud, but for some reason, his voice wouldn't come.

Carl studied the android for a few moments, then pushed away his breakfast tray. (Connor hadn't noticed him eating at any point, but he clearly must have, because now it was empty.) "…Sometimes a family is something you're born into. And sometimes it's something you find on your own."

Connor frowned (almost skeptically), but said nothing.

"…You won't find that in any dictionary… but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen." Carl paused for a long time, and then his eyes narrowed. "… _That's_ what you're missing… isn't it?"

There was a long silence.

"…I… I don't know," Connor admitted finally, his voice (that had suddenly returned) barely above a whisper. His LED blinked red for a moment, before returning back to yellow. "…I guess… I _wanted_ to be a family, but… an android shouldn't be able to be anyone's son. It's _impossible_."

"…Wanting a family is a part of being alive. And anyway, nothing's impossible." Carl made a noise like a scoff. "…Anyone who's seen the news should know that."

Connor was quiet. Even if the man was right – that he _could_ be someone's son, albeit not in the technical way – he didn't want to be _just anyone's_ son. He wanted to be _Hank's_ son.

"…B-but he doesn't _want_ to be a family. He doesn't want a _son_ , because he already _has_ one, and… I can't replace him." He paused for a few moments, aware again of the heavy feeling in his stomach, but Carl didn't reply, so he heard himself go on. "…I said something that… I-I guess I've _wanted_ to say, but…" He shook his head. "I _shouldn't_ have said it. And I apologized, but…" He trailed off, and there were a few seconds of silence.

"…He denied it?" Carl speculated quietly, encouraging the android to continue.

"…No," Connor replied, voice surprisingly shaky. "…I didn't… _mean_ it." He paused again, staring holes into Carl's bed sheets and ignoring the alternating red-and-yellow reflections in the hospital-grade monitors beside him. "…And I… I _wanted_ to, because _I'm_ the one who messed it all up. But… I'm not sorry – I'm _still_ not sorry… even though I know I should be." Another pause. "…I-I'm not supposed to keep wanting this; I want to… to _stop_ wanting this, but… I just _can't_." He wrung his hands. "…He doesn't need another son – he doesn't need a-a _replacement_." Another pause, the feeling in his stomach he'd forgotten about suddenly beginning to churn again. "…Nothing makes _sense_ anymore, and… I just don't know what to _do_." His voice hitched, but it was alright, because he found himself at a loss for words anyway.

After a long silence, Carl spoke again, his voice soft and gentle.

"…I have a son named Leo. And when he first met Markus, he thought that I was replacing him." He paused. "…But Markus was never meant to be a _replacement_ ; he was an addition to the family." He paused again. "…Maybe I've known Leo for a longer time than I've known Markus. And maybe Markus and I have had less disagreements. But none of that matters, because I care about them the same… they're _both_ my sons."

There was another long silence, and then finally Carl continued.

"…This person. You clearly care about him."

Connor fidgeted, but managed a single minute head nod.

"I assume he cares about you."

 _But shit, I still care about you, you idiot._

Connor nodded softly again.

"…Well, I'm no expert. But I would say it's _likely_ that there's room enough for two sons in there somewhere."

Connor said nothing, still frowning. He wanted to be convinced, but… something still twisted in the pit of his metaphorical stomach. He set a reminder to run a diagnostic on his abdominal and thoracic biocomponents, but said nothing.

"Doctor Bishop is here, Carl," said a sudden voice from the bedroom doorway, which Connor's auditory processors told him was the AP700 from earlier. "Just let me know when you're ready, and I'll send him up."

Carl grimaced and shifted in the bed, muttering something about 'fragile machines' as he glanced at the blinking monitors beside him, but Connor reacted before he could say anything.

"I-I should go. I wouldn't want to keep you from your appointment," the detective android said quickly, moving to stand (and ignoring the weightless feeling in his legs).

"Oh, don't worry about that," Carl insisted, waving a hand dismissively. "That quack always shows up an hour early… you don't have to leave because of him."

Connor's LED spun yellow for a few moments before returning to blue. "…A-actually, I think I just… need some time to think." And he wasn't… _really_ lying. He _did_ need a break, but if anything, it was to distract himself _from_ thinking.

"Of course," Carl nodded, and Connor nodded back genuinely.

"…Thank you for everything." He felt oddly numb, but ignored it, along with the churning feeling in his torso he hadn't yet identified.

"Eh, you don't have to thank me," Carl shrugged. "All I did was talk. Anyone can do that." He moved to hand the empty breakfast plate off to the waiting caretaker – David, Connor remembered – and then looked back. "…You know, if I haven't scared you off, you're welcome back any time. It's always a pleasure to meet some of Markus' friends."

"Thank you," Connor said again, and one corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "It was a pleasure to meet you too." He gave polite goodbyes to David and the (unusually) human doctor, and then he was back on the street.

He wanted to take a mental break, but the weight in his stomach had spread to his chest, and it was too distracting to think about anything else. His scans came up negative, so it was nothing functional. It must have been those irritating emotion programs that he couldn't keep a handle on anymore… what had he decided it was? Loneliness?

How could he have been lonely? He'd spent the better part of an hour in a conversation, and the conversation had been about the problem he'd been wanting to address. Perhaps it was because he wasn't addressing it with the person he should have been.

Connor began walking aimlessly down the sidewalk again.

Maybe he _should_ talk to Hank. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding. Maybe it could all work out after all.

…Or maybe it wouldn't, and maybe Hank would push him away. Connor frowned; even with the advice he'd been given, his doubts still lingered.

But… maybe that would be okay, he told himself. If Hank really _did_ cut him off for being honest about his feelings, he could handle it, just like he'd done with Amanda. And Amanda could do a _lot worse_ to him than Hank ever could.

Hank couldn't take control of him, or deactivate him, or trap him inside of his own mind; Hank couldn't do _anything_ to him.

Connor was stronger than him, faster than him, and smarter than him – not to mention the fact that he didn't feel physical pain. Connor could complete more cases in two hours than Hank could in _two days_. And _he'd_ been afraid of being considered an inconvenience? (…Connor didn't want to think of himself as superior, but… the realization that he really didn't… _need_ Hank was startlingly jarring.)

Did he still want to be close to Hank? Naturally. Did he still want to resolve this issue? Of _course_. Did he want things to go back to the way they were? _Obviously_.

…But Connor didn't really… _need_ any of those things.

He _wanted_ them, sure, but if Hank didn't make a move to meet him in the middle, he could… technically still move on with his life, because Hank had never really given him anything he _needed_. True, he had been a dependable emotional support, but… now he had at least one other person who had been more willing to discuss this situation (that still meant a lot to him) than Hank had – he had someone to fall back on now. If Hank cut him off, or kicked him out of the house, or abandoned him, he had someone else who was willing to take him in.

He didn't want to have to have a person to fall back on, because he wanted Hank to accept him, but… if worst came to worst…

And anyway, Hank needed _Connor_ , didn't he? Without him, the man had been a frequent alcohol abuser with a history of violence and suicidal tendencies. And Connor had worked _so hard_ to help him through all of his personal (and meaningful) issues. Yet when Connor brought his own inner and sincere feelings to the table, Hank brushed them aside?

Connor's knuckles tingled, and the weight inside his chest was suddenly growing at a massive rate, feeling warmer the whole time.

 ** _Angry_**. Adjective. **Definition:** Having a strong feeling of (or showing) annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.

The android stopped walking.

…Was he… _angry_? He'd told himself before that he didn't have a _right_ to be angry, but now he was coming to realize that maybe he did. _He'd_ been hurt too, so why did _his_ feelings have to play second fiddle? Why did _Connor_ have to comply to _Hank's_ repressive coping mechanisms? Weren't they supposed to be equal? Wasn't Connor supposed to be a living being, with just as much of a voice as a human?

 ** _Resentful_**. Adjective. **Definition:** Feeling or expressing bitterness or indignation at having been treated unfairly.

Maybe _that's_ what he'd been feeling. Did he want to feel this way? Had he _planned_ to? Of course not. He'd never been angry before (inconvenienced, if anything), and he'd certainly never wanted to be _resentful_ towards Hank, but… here he was.

He ran a finger across the ridge of the quarter in his hand (that he didn't remember taking out of his pocket) as an alternative to massaging his knuckles.

…Alright. Suppose that maybe Connor _was_ angry. Suppose that maybe he _was_ resentful. And maybe he _did_ have a right to be. Maybe Hank _did_ Connor more than Connor needed Hank, and maybe there was no happy ending to this.

Connor's fingers twitched.

He didn't know if he was thinking straight – emotions had a habit of interfering with his logical solution development – but he _did_ know that they needed to talk. At this point, Connor wasn't sure what he was going to say anymore, but if he'd taken anything from Grace, it was that he had to get his feelings out in the open. And maybe – like Carl had said – Hank wouldn't reject him.

Connor felt himself stop walking.

He didn't want to feel angry. But he hadn't wanted to lie about being sorry either, and he'd done that all the same. It had felt… wrong, because Connor had never lied to Hank before. Had he even known it was a lie at the time?

He checked the time. It was a bit later than noon, which meant Hank still had at _least_ two hours before his assigned lunch break. Considering the man was unaccompanied, the probability of him visiting somewhere unhealthy were particularly high, so Connor set a GPS destination.

Maybe Hank didn't want Connor around solely because he filled his emotional needs. Maybe he didn't want him as a replacement son. Maybe he actually cared about Connor as his own person.

The heavy feeling in his chest (which he'd categorized as anger) was still there, but it was dissipating. Now he felt… almost hopeful. He didn't feel anxious anymore, even though he did still have his guard up. If Carl and Grace were really right, he didn't have anything to worry about.

Still, he had a back-up plan, because Connor rarely went into things without one. If things did go south, Connor still had a home, and he had friends. If Hank didn't want to hear it, or pushed him away, well… it would hurt him a lot more than it hurt Connor… wouldn't it?

Another feeling – this one feeling weirdly numb and empty – spread through him, but he didn't have the emotional energy to designate it. Instead, he ignored it, and began walking to the address in his database, telling himself that everything was going to be _fine_.


End file.
